


Self-Destruct

by ThoseFiveChicks



Series: Under The Bed [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jason Todd, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Self-Destructive Behavior, Self-Hatred, Tim Drake is Robin, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Bruce Wayne, Vampire Dick Grayson, Vampire Tim Drake, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseFiveChicks/pseuds/ThoseFiveChicks
Summary: The problem with time bombs is not that they explode; it's that they tend to take out the people most dedicated to diffusing them. So says Jason Todd, self-confessed time-bomb; and his bomb squad is full of trusting idiots.
Series: Under The Bed [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1187669
Comments: 31
Kudos: 422





	1. You Can't Go Home Again

The silence was overwhelming.

It wasn’t like the Batcave had ever been particularly _loud_. Bruce was quiet when he worked– the most common time for him to stop breathing was when he was sitting in front of the monitors down here– and Jason could remember spending entire evenings with no words exchanged at all, interrupted only by the occasional interloper. Alfred, coming down to check if he needed a late-night snack, or Dick tagging in for the night and chattering away in Jason’s ear while Bruce threw occasional, fond-eyed glances at their reflections in the monitors, happy to see his boys getting along.

 _His boys_.

Bruce hadn’t been completely mute or anything. He talked plenty; correcting Jason’s form when they sparred, bouncing theories off of him, outlining plans. Jason had never been afraid to speak up, to break the silence, but that was the thing– with Bruce, the silence had always been a choice. Comfortable to settle into, like a pair of old worn-out pajamas. Some of Jason’s best memories, the memories that hurt the most, were silent ones. The ones where Jason was curled up in a too-huge chair beside Bruce, listening to the soft _clack-clack_ of the keyboard and nothing else.

This silence wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t comfortable. This silence was oppressive, heavy, hanging over him thick enough to choke.

Jason let out a breath, prompting Tim, seated opposite him in a delicate perch on the counter, to refocus his attention. He shouldn’t have let it wander in the first place. Jason was dangerous; if the birds were smart, they’d have already packaged him up and gift-wrapped him for Arkham by now. It was a thought that both terrified Jason and left him completely apathetic. He probably _should_ be locked up, his head hadn’t been right since he’d been dragged out of his grave and his early retirement. He shouldn’t be in Arkham, he wasn’t that crazy. He might be that crazy. He’d probably try to kill the other inmates. Fuck it, he’d _definitely_ try to kill the other inmates, it wouldn’t be safe for him _or_ them. The thought of being helpless, weaponless, and probably drugged out of his mind sent a sick, shivery feeling sliding into his chest, and Jason had always been violent when he was scared.

Still. If Bats was anything but a hypocrite he’d be locked up by now.

( _For some godforsaken reason, he still trusts you_ )

( _Look where that fucking got him_ )

( _Idiot_ )

Jason was covered in blood. That wasn’t unusual. Tim was glaring at him– also not unusual. One of his wrists was handcuffed to the arm of his chair, which would be insulting if everyone here didn’t know full well he could get out of it in less than thirty seconds. That was the point of the thing, a delaying tactic that would give the birds a chance to stop him from leaving.

As if Jason would even _be_ here if he hadn’t shown up all on his own.

It was weird, being back in the cave. He’d been back before, more than once, and every time it was a fresh kind of hell. He should’ve just dumped Bruce at the entrance and left, ding-dong-ditched the manor and ignored the little voice in the back of his head that said that Alfred was going to have a fit about the blood on the stoop. He should’ve just left the fucking idiot where he landed, let him bleed out, die one of the worst deaths a vampire could or worse– attack the first person with a beating heart who came near. That would destroy him in a million different ways, Jason knew. Hell, he could’ve just grabbed the communicator out of Bruce’s kit and called in backup for him, let _his boys_ clean up _his mess_. Never mind how much worse he’d have been when they finally got there. He was a vampire. He’d live.

(Jason _would have lived, because nothing could kill him anymore, not really_ )

( _He shouldn’t have done that_ )

“So,” Jason drawled when the silence got to be too much for him, “You get in trouble with the big man over sneaking out?”

Tim’s silence was answer enough. Jason nodded as if he’d gotten a verbal response.

“Ah. Still flightless, then.”

Tim gritted his teeth. His fangs looked a bit too big for his mouth, too much predator packed into his expression, and Jason wondered if it was anger that was doing it– and if so, who at? Jason? Himself?

“Is that why you did it?” Tim asked. “Because you knew he was alone?”

His voice dripped with venom. Jason was almost impressed. He leaned into it, leaned into the anger, and leaned forward in his chair. His friendly grin turned mean at the edges.

“Aw. Is that regret I hear, baby bird? You wishing you hadn’t spilled family secrets to _the enemy?_ ”

Tim’s hands tightened into fists– bare, Tim was out of uniform, he’d been dragged down here in his pajamas and only had time to throw on a belt– then relaxed again. Tightened, then relaxed. It’d been a while since Jason had wound him up like this; would he be more sensitive? Go off sooner? Or had Jason lost his touch as he’d gotten _comfortable_ around the bats again?

“I don’t understand you,” Tim muttered. Jason spread his hands, splaying his bloodstained fingers and giving Tim a wide, easy smile.

“What’s to understand? I’m an evil monster. A real one, not like you and the rest of the brood. Maybe if you had some of that edge you wouldn’t trust as easy, Timmo.”

“I _don’t_ –” Tim bit off his sentence, but Jason knew where he’d been going. _I don’t trust you_. It was satisfying to hear, the same way it was satisfying when Jason threw a punch too hard and split the skin on his knuckles. The same way it was satisfying to fight until he could barely stand, until all he could think about was the easy pain and none of the hard stuff. It was the bite of his nails digging into the palm of his hand.

“You don’t what?” he prompted. Tim’s lip twitched.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said quietly. Jason blew out a disappointed breath.

“Oh, and that means it ain’t gonna work? Worked on _Bruce_ , didn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“Pretend all you want, baby bird, you’re not cold. You’ve got feelings in there and we both know I just took soccer cleats to that heart of yours. Come on, you wanna take a swing at me? I won’t even tell Dick!”

Jason tilted his chin, first one way then the other, offering himself up as a target for the Robin’s fury. He didn’t think Tim would actually hit him but _fuck_ would it be incredible if he did. Put that betrayal and pain into a good solid punch, one he wouldn’t have to hold back for knowing Jason would be fine. Jason was pretty sure a vampire could hit someone hard enough to snap their neck, but no vampire he’d ever known had been willing to try.

Tim looked away. His shaggy black hair fell in his eyes, obscuring them from Jason’s view. His hands kept up their rhythm for a moment longer– clench, unclench, clench, unclench– before he forcibly stilled them, pressing his palms to the side of his legs. He let out a shaky breath that Jason knew he didn’t need. He’d know he’d gotten Tim riled up good and proper if he stopped breathing through his nose; that would mean he was too pissed to handle the scent of human blood. And non-human blood. Jason really _was_ covered in the stuff.

It just smelled like iron to him. Cloying. Overpowering.

He swallowed hard against the burn at the back of his throat.

“What a good little bird. Playing nice even when the warden isn’t around to enforce his rules.”

It came out less taunting this time. More bitter. He dropped his gaze, examining the blood caught under his nails, and ignored the prickling feeling of eyes on him. If Tim was back to scrutinizing him, he didn’t want to know.

“He said–” Tim’s voice broke off. There was a pause in which the only sound was Jason’s breathing, or– Jason supposed– his pulse, if you had ears to hear it. He couldn’t, but he could feel its uneven beat in his chest.

“Bruce doesn’t talk a lot about what you were like. But he told me about how you kept trying to go out and help him when you were recovering from a concussion. How you wouldn’t stay in no matter what he said.”

“Was this before or after I came back?” Jason asked offhandedly. As if it didn’t matter who Bruce had been talking about– the lost son, or the monster who returned with his face.

Either way, Tim didn’t answer.

“He’s not mad at me for sneaking out. But you know that.”

“Oh, do I?” He raised his eyes and, yep, Tim was staring at him again. He had that look on his face, the look he wore when he was unraveling a tricky bit of code or sizing up an opponent. Like he had Jason _all_ figured out.

Jason hated it. He chafed under that look. Under the thought that _anyone_ had access to his mind.

“Yes. You do. Because despite how you might act you _know_ Bruce isn’t the person you pretend he is. That he doesn’t _deserve_ to be–”

Tim snarled, the sound cutting through his words and only barely contained by those oversized teeth. He tried _so hard_ to remain the calm and collected person he’d been before everything, before Jason came back and ruined him, but when Jason got his claws into him he was viciously expressive. It was wonderful.

( _It was horrible_ )

( _Jason ruined everything he touched_ )

“Why did you do it?” Tim asked again.

Jason shrugged his shoulders. He kept his expression blank.

“Saw a chance. Took it.”

“And then brought him _back?_ ” Tim shook his head. “This clearly wasn’t about killing him. This was about twisting the knife. Is it because I felt _safe enough_ to come to you for help? Are you so insecure that you can’t even handle a _microscopic amount of trust?_ ”

 _Yes_ , Jason thought.

 _I thought you didn’t trust me_ , he thought about saying.

_I thought he was already dead when I hauled his ass back here._

_I don’t need a reason to hurt you, replacement._

He didn’t say any of it. Not because he’d thought better of it– Jason hadn’t thought better of anything in _years_ – but because he didn’t get the chance. Tim stiffened, sitting up slightly straighter, and that was all the warning Jason got before Nightwing swept around the corner.

He was in uniform, just like he’d been when Jason first arrived, but he’d taken off the domino. His gloves, too, were gone, and there was the same crescent of red caught under his nails as Jason. Unlike Jason, the rest of his hands were clean, which meant he’d washed up after tending to Bruce’s wounds.

Jason let a smirk affix itself to his expression as he gazed up into Nightwing’s face.

He looked tired.

“You look tired,” Jason said. “Long night?”

Dick didn’t answer, looking away from Jason and instead meeting Tim’s expectant gaze.

“He’s gonna be okay,” he said, voice soft. It was like someone had cut every one of Timmy’s strings– his whole body relaxed, and even his eyes lost some of the tension around the edges.

“Oh thank God,” he breathed.

“No,” Dick said quietly. “Thank Jason.”

His words hit like a gutpunch. Tim turned his once-again wide-eyed gaze on him and Jason’s whole body locked up, his smirk turning to a rictus. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Dick.

“I mean,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in a movement that felt jerkier and more robotic than it had earlier, “I didn’t think a _thank you_ was in order for not separating the guy’s head from his shoulders, but I’ll take it. Can I bill you guys for the clip I emptied into his back, or. . ?”

To his horror, Dick actually _pulled a key_ from his belt, coming over to unlock Jason’s cuffs. Tim’s sharp intake of breath was the salt, spice and insult to Jason’s wound.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, as if all the pieces were falling into place, then, “Oh. Oh, Jason–”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Jason snapped, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Dick or Tim. _Don’t uncuff me. Don’t apologize_.

It didn’t stop Dick. He straightened up, taking the cuffs with him, and Jason rubbed at his wrist out of habit rather than necessity. He hadn’t even been chained up long enough for it to hurt. It wasn’t fair.

“Jason,” Dick began, and Jason gritted his teeth.

“I said _don’t_.”

An hour ago, Jason had dragged the Batman’s unconscious, bleeding body back to the cave. He’d pinged Dick with a message from Batman’s own system and Dick, arriving only a few minutes later, had been horrified to find Bruce dumped unceremoniously into a cot in the med bay with Jason smoking a cigarette in the cot beside him. He’d been even more horrified when he’d realized a near-full clip of machine-gun fire had been poured into Bruce’s back. It was cowardly. It was underhanded. It was something that could only have happened if Bruce had been stupid enough to turn his back on someone he was starting to trust again.

It was something that had become very typical of Jason.

Jason didn’t argue when Dick’s nauseated _what happened?_ had turned into a sharp, accusatory _what happened_. He encouraged it, even. Played along. Because if the birds wanted to think Jason had done this, he’d let them. It would keep them at a distance again. No more injured robins turning up on his couch. No more tiny displays of affection. Of trust. If he was lucky, Bruce wouldn’t even remember what had happened, and Jason would be free to act out again all he wanted without _letting anyone down_.

( _And then he’d never know why the fuck Bruce had done what he did, and he’d add that to the massive pile of things he lay awake at night thinking about_ )

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick said again. He was trying to make eye contact. Jason wasn’t letting him.

Had Bruce woken up or something? Explained that it hadn’t been Jason’s finger on the trigger? That was bullshit. It wasn’t like it _mattered_. It was still Jason’s fault.

“Oh, Jaybird,” Dick breathed, and his voice _hurt_. The bad kind of hurt, the kind that was nauseatingly sweet and affectionate, the kind that reminded Jason far too much of ( _reading aloud in the library, laughing over breakfasts, arguing over the remote_ ). It was sympathetic. It was _pitying_.

Dick was standing right in front of his chair. Jason didn’t have an escape route. He probably still could’ve done _something_ – flipped the chair backwards, rolled off the side, kicked Dick in the crotch– but in the split second he took to feel cornered Dick was already reaching out for him.

He wrapped his arms around Jason’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.

The angle was awkward. Jason’s chin had to be digging into his shoulder, and his arms were crowded between his chest and Dick’s. He was still covered in blood, and it _had_ to be getting all over Dick’s uniform, as if there wasn’t enough already by now. He’d probably had to do surgery to get all the shrapnel out of Bruce, all on his own because Jason needed guarding and Alfred was getting more blood. At some point– probably more than once– Dick would have thought about how easy it would be to get that blood from Jason. To drag him into the med bay and force him to fix what he’d done.

( _Jason had already poured himself down Bruce’s throat, as much as he could give without blacking out, and he would’ve given more but he had to get Bruce_ )

( _Back to the cave_ )

( ~~ _Home_~~ )

He could see Tim’s face over Dick’s shoulder. He looked pale, like he always did. His teeth were flat and human, and he looked as dazed as he did after one of Jason’s blows.

( _When was the last time Jason had hit him?_ Really _hit him?_ )

“Jaybird,” Dick murmured, “I am so sorry.”


	2. Implosion

“Fuck _off_ , Bats, I’m _handling_ this!”

It had happened fast.

Two hours ago, Jason had been doing his thing as usual, which was to say recklessly and with no regard for his own life (because hey, it wasn’t like he could lose that anymore). There was an arms deal going down in one of the warehouses out by the docks, because of _course_ that was where it was. Criminals in Gotham loved warehouses the same way most people liked chocolate chip cookies; perfect for every occasion and the ideal just-because treat.

It wasn’t like Jason didn’t _get_ it. For a while he’d actually considered making a safe house out of one of them, because the people who rented the places knew what they were used for and didn’t ask questions. He’d ultimately decided against it, despite how convenient the lack of commute to most of his ass-kickings would be, for a combination of reasons– the dock warehouses were cold and drafty as shit, for one, and for another he was pretty sure shaking down your technically-landlord for information regarding their renters would result in a _tense_ relationship, and Jason had to do that on the regular. He saw Carl– one of the warehouse employees with an easily-startled temperament and loose lips– more often than he saw his own face in the mirror. They were almost friends at this point, as much as _anyone_ could be friends with the Red Hood.

Carl had been the one to tattle on this particular deal. Jason had hung out in his office for a while while the guy was on break, cleaning one of his guns, and when Carl came back to see Red Hood sitting in his chair with his feet up on his desk and a partially-disassembled glock spread out in front of him. . .

 _Okay, you didn’t hear this from me_ , he’d said, _but the guys you were asking about last week? They came in this morning. Rented dock number fifteen, said they’d only be needing it for two days. And for the love of fuck, can’t you just like–_ call _or something?_

So Jason had staked the place out. Both nights, just in case the _two day_ thing was caution on the dealers’ part, padding out time in case of delays. Even arms traffickers had to deal with shipping complications.

Night one was uneventful, and Jason spent his time casing the joint, finding his escape routes and entry points and all the nooks and crannies he could duck and cover in. It wasn’t so much because he wanted to be thorough, more that he was bored out of his fucking skull and if memorizing the layout of old shipping containers could occupy him he’d do it. He ran strategy in his head, despite knowing he’d likely wind up improvising the shit out of everything anyway. Maybe Tim was rubbing off on him. Damn brat.

( _Jason had wondered if his gut was okay_ )

Night two. Things had gone well, at least at first. He’d watched from above as the traffickers arrived and started moving their cargo into the building, and debated stepping in then and there. On the one hand, _divide and conquer_ was a legitimate strategy, and if Jason could take care of things quickly and efficiently he could get the bodies out of sight before the buyers showed. On the other hand, Jason didn’t know _when_ they were supposed to arrive, and _quiet_ wasn’t usually an accurate way of describing a fight between him and an entire gang. Jason had counted nineteen members, two of which he wouldn’t feel comfortable using lethal force against– they looked young. Young enough that they might be scared straight by the bloodbath Jason was planning, young enough that they might not be here entirely of their free will. Certainly young enough to run scared to their bosses if everyone else on their team was dropped, and even the young could tip off their buyers and keep Jason from finishing the job.

( _They looked older than Jason_ )

( _Jason didn’t like to look in the mirror very much anymore_ )

So he waited. And the second group arrived. And then Jason dropped and locked the warehouse doors to keep them from trying to run, and in the ensuing panic it was easy for him to drop in through one of the windows and behind one of the shipping containers. The first couple guys went down easy, and then the criminals _really_ started to freak out, and then–

Batman showed up.

Of course the assembled criminals immediately assumed he was the reason two of their guys were dead. Jason almost wanted to yell at them– they were shot! With _guns!_ Had they _ever_ seen the Batman use a gun, let _alone_ with such great marksmanship?!

( _Jason was allowed to be self-satisfied about his aim, thanks_ )

He yelled at Batman instead.

The man had, of course, tried his nonlethal approach. Of course it actually halfway _worked_ , because this was _the Batman_ , and despite the fact that a warehouse full of armed goons should logically have the advantage over a vigilante with a strict no-killing code Batman was pretty damn good at not getting shot. It helped that the criminals were already shaken– _thank you Jason_ , no one said– but they still had plenty of fight in them.

Jason had cursed, cursed some more, and grudgingly vaulted out of his cover to help. Because, well, he was pissed. This was _his_ job too, and he’d started this one first. He had _dibs_. Vigilante dibs.

Batman didn’t see it that way.

“Your method of _handling_ things leaves a lot to be desired, Hood,” he’d growled. Jason had rolled his eyes. One of the goons– one of the _young_ ones– leveled a pistol at his head, and though his shaking hand indicated that he wasn’t completely committed to pulling the trigger Jason didn’t take that chance. He dropped to the ground, sweeping a leg out and swiping the kid’s out from under him. He toppled, and Jason pinned him, planting a knee in the small of his back and holding out a hand to Batman.

He was expecting, and wasn’t disappointed by, the cuffs that hit his palm. It made him sick, how well they still worked together. He cuffed the kid’s wrist to his ankle and got back up.

“No one said you had to watch,” he’d said. “Like I said, fuck off.”

He’d wondered if Batman was going to try to take him in after this. He had just shot two men, after all. He’d have shot more if he wasn’t absolutely certain that Batman would make stopping him his immediate priority, leaving the criminals time to slip away. He was pretty sure Batman knew that.

They’d continued arguing the whole way through the fight. Jason couldn’t even remember half of what he’d said. He’d just been _angry_ , angry that Batman was cutting in and taking over.

( _Angry that Batman was seeing him like this_ )

It’d been a while since they’d actually fought. It’d been a while since they’d seen each other on the streets at all. Jason had backed off on family reunions, had actively started avoiding Bat’s fights instead of crashing them. He’d been trying to _live and let live_ , as much as a bunch of bloodsuckers and a zombie with a pulse could. Seeing Batman again, fighting _alongside_ him again, however tangentially. . . it brought a lot of fury back to the surface.

( _And not all of it was directed outwards_ )

They’d ended up screaming at each other. Jason couldn’t remember why.

( _He could. He’d been holding a gun to the unconscious leader, yelling that Batman should just_ let him shoot him, _and his hand had been shaking_ )

( _With rage_ )

And then Batman’s head had jerked up and Jason had spun around, found himself staring down the barrel of an Uzi. It was one of the kids holding it. Jason could remember having a moment of crystal clarity when he realized, far too late, that the kid bore a striking resemblance to the guy he was threatening to execute.

 _Shit,_ Jason had thought, taking a step back. _I was hoping to make it through this one without dying_.

The gun had gone off. Jason could hear it emptying a full clip.

He couldn’t feel anything.

And then he did. He felt cold. He felt concrete under him, felt something wet soaking the front of his shirt.

 _Oh sweet_ , he’d thought, _this is one of the ones that doesn’t hurt. I love those_.

Except he could definitely feel the ache in his back from where he’d hit the ground, and he could feel a pressure on top of him. A weight. He could hear the kid cursing in a shaking voice, the sound of something heavy being dragged– the leader, the kid was dragging his (brother?) out and away.

And Batman was on top of Jason. Unmoving.

Because of course he’d gone and tackled him. Shielded him from the machine gun fire.

Of course he’d gotten shot.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jason had breathed, “Shit shit _shit_.”

He’d rolled Batman onto his back. He wasn’t moving. Jason wasn’t stupid enough to try to remove the cowl so he couldn’t check to see if his eyes were closed, but from the lack of responsiveness he assumed Batman was unconscious. It took a _lot_ of bullets to knock out a vampire, but Batman had taken them point-blank in his back. The kevlar of his suit was useless from that distance, against that onslaught. He was losing a lot of blood.

“Shit,” Jason said again. He’d cupped Batman’s cheek, slapped it lightly a couple times. No change. He’d wondered if Bruce had been eating properly. He’d wondered if he still took his meals in mugs with dumb puns on them. If he still forgot to eat when he was involved in a case. If Alfred still had to remind him. Maybe Tim reminded him these days.

He’d pulled a knife out of a sheath on his thigh with no hesitation at all. He’d yanked his sleeve up with his teeth, impatient and hasty, and dragged the sharp edge of the blade over his own skin. It cut through his flesh, across the half-healed bite mark Tim had left a few days ago. Blood welled from the gash.

He dropped the knife.

The scent of his blood _had_ to have hit the air by now, but Bruce hadn’t reacted. Maybe it was that iron control of his, still in place even when his body was in survival mode, or maybe he was too far gone to move at all. Jason grabbed his face with his free hand, dug his thumb into Batman’s cheek to force his mouth open.

“Come on,” he’d muttered, pressing his bleeding wrist to Batman’s lips. “Come on, you stupid fucking vampire, _eat!_ ”

Bruce hadn’t moved. Not when Jason started to feed him and not anytime after, no matter how much blood Jason forced down his throat. When his head started to spin, he’d had to make himself stop. If he died right now, they’d both be stranded here until he came back, and Jason didn’t know how long the thugs they’d knocked out earlier would stay down. He was probably already pushing it with how long he’d just been sitting here, knelt over Batman’s unconscious body.

The wind was cold on his damp cheeks as he carted Bruce back to the cave.

* * *

“What gave me away?” Jason asked.

They’d taken him upstairs. Let him shower. Brought him a change of clothes. Jason had been expecting to be handed some of Nightwing’s shit he’d left lying around. It’d be a tight fit– Dick had the body of a gymnast, lean and sinuous, while Jason was built like a street thug. He’d already been thinking through all the cracks he could make when he came out of the bathroom just about bursting out of the t-shirt, but then he’d slipped it on and it. . . fit.

It really threw him off in his attempt to recenter his head. It helped to be mean. To be angry. It _didn’t_ help to think about why they had clothes in his size, to imagine Bruce buying a few things just on the off-chance that Jason ever stopped by in a way that wasn’t guns-blazing. To imagine him hoping that Jason would.

( _He’d stood under the spray of the shower for far longer than he’d needed to, watching the water run down the drain– rusty, then clear– and thinking about how the hot water never worked right in his apartment, and how much he’d loved the fluffy bath towels here when he'd first moved in_ )

( _He’d never had anything that nice before_ )

( _Alfred still stocked the same soap_ )

And now he was here. Sitting at the kitchen table with a mug in front of him and a set of birds across from him. He could hear the sink running as Alfred, a few yards away, washed up the pan and measuring cups he’d gotten dirty making hot chocolate.

( _For Jason_ )

( _Alfred had always melted real chocolate into the hot coco he made, no Swiss Miss in this household_ )

Tim shifted in his seat, looking from Jason to Dick. Jason gripped his mug a little harder. The heat was helping, grounding him, keeping him from doing something drastic to show the replacement exactly why he shouldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Dick sighed. He was leaning back against the island in the middle of the kitchen, the one Jason had spent _so many hours_ seated at, learning to cook alongside Alfred. He was out of uniform now, having changed while Jason was in the shower. Jason wasn’t so naive as to imagine that meant he was unarmed.

( _He hoped to all_ hell _that he wasn’t unarmed_ )

“Why did you tell me you were the one who shot him, Jay?” Dick asked. His voice was soft, like it was when he talked to scared kids on patrol. Jason gritted his teeth.

“I asked you first, _Dickhead_.”

“Mature,” Tim muttered.

Dick just nodded.

“That’s fair,” he said. Jason hated it. Dick had never been like this when he was younger, all– _mature_ and _mediatory_. He’d had his moments, sure, but for the most part he was a fucking goofball. He hadn’t been the same since Jason came back.

Maybe he hadn’t been the same since he’d died.

Dick ran a hand over his face, up into his hair, teasing it back out of his eyes. His hands were clean, no more crescent of red under the nails.

“You fed him.”

It wasn’t a question. Jason’s shoulders tensed as he prepared to argue anyway.

“And you’d know that _how?_ ”

Dick shrugged. “Smelled you on him. I missed it at first, the scent was totally overpowered by everything else, but then I went to try to get a few bags in him and. . .”

And he’d opened Bruce’s mouth. Probably held his jaw the same way Jason had, bag at the ready, and gotten an unexpected whiff of A positive. Jason wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that Dick, despite all these years, still knew Jason’s scent. Knew it well enough to recognize it even under the copper reek of vampire blood. Not that it smelled all that different to Jason, and not that he understood why it would. Dick had tried to explain it to him once and Jason had just kept arguing that since it was _literally_ taken from a human, shouldn’t it smell like the human it was taken from?

He _super_ didn’t know how to feel about the idea of his blood being inside of Bruce. He’d been trying not to think about it. Back when he’d been a baby Robin and it had been Dick all gassed up on liquid Jason, he’d felt proud in a way he’d never put into words. Now. . .

“Your turn,” Dick said. “Why’d you lie to us?”

Jason looked away, down into the still-steaming contents of his mug. He wasn’t going to drink it. Alfred was a literal magic-worker in the kitchen, he could easily have concealed the taste of a drug under the heavy flavor of chocolate.

( _And Jason needed to cling to the idea that that was something Alfred might have done or he was going to lose any remaining shit he still had together_ )

“It’s not like it matters,” Jason muttered. “I’m gonna murder the shit out of the jackasses who did it as soon as my head stops spinning.”

Probably sooner, honestly, based on past reckless behavior.

( _Would he really shoot that kid?_ )

“He was trying to get me to hit him,” Tim said, like the fucking tattletale he was. Jason glared at him, and rather than back down the replacement just puffed himself up even more. Apparently he was taking acting cues from _actual_ robins now.

“You’re _still_ trying to,” he said. His voice had jumped an octave. He was never going to grow out of that now. “Like, that murder crack! You’re pushing every button you can get your hands on!”

“Sorry,” Jason said, “I can’t understand you when you’re in dog whistle territory.”

Dick let out an explosive sigh, finally taking a seat in the chair beside Tim. He flopped down into it with _flair_ , a kind of aggravated energy in the gesture. He’d been pacing when Jason had first walked in. That was how things worked with Dick, he translated his feelings into movement. It was when he went stock-still that you knew you’d really gotten to him, when that line of communication between his heart and his body had broken down completely.

He’d gone stock-still when he’d seen Bruce earlier. Seen Jason beside him.

“Jason,” Dick said, in a tone of strained patience. “Why are you doing this?”

“Where’s Bruce?” Jason asked, changing the subject. He glanced over towards the hallway that opened up to the manor proper. “You wouldn’t have left him down in the cave like that, so he’s in his room, right? You get him all cleaned up first? I know what you always say, Alf, but it’s still a bitch to get bloodstains out of white sheets. You guys should really switch to burgundy, play up the theme.”

The sound of running water cut itself off and Alfred approached the table, drying his hands with a dish rag and giving Jason the Unimpressed Look that still haunted his nightmares.

“Master Jason,” he said– because fuck him, he’d never _stopped_ calling him that, not in any of the limited encounters they’d had since Jason’s return– “I should very much like to know what happened tonight.”

There was only one member of the family that Jason had truly, honestly never hated. Never felt even slightly upset with. Alfred, clearly, knew this. Alfred, clearly, did not deserve to be spared from Jason’s wrath.

Still, Jason’s grip on his mug eased. His jaw clenched, then relaxed.

“Fine,” he said, and he hated how little bite there was to the word. “It’s honestly not that complicated. I'm surprised Boy Wonder and TinTin over there haven’t already worked it out.”

“It’s not like I’m working with all the pieces or anything,” Tim said. He sounded mildly indignant. “I got to the party late and no one told me anything except _you_ , and then it turned out you were lying your ass off!”

“We know you didn’t shoot him,” Dick said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried to save him.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I contain multitudes and contradictions,” Jason said. He gave up on holding out and took a sip of his coco. It was delicious. If he passed out in a drug-induced slumber, at least he wouldn’t have to finish explaining.

“Do you contain a straight answer?” Tim asked.

Jason and Dick both snorted at the same time.

“Definitely not,” Jason drawled. “Never.”

“Not this household’s forte,” Dick agreed.

Jason decided that he was going to focus on appreciating Tim’s exasperated eye roll instead of the lurch he’d felt in his gut when he’d been included in _the household_. The easy way he and Dick had fallen into the same joke.

“Basically,” he said, “I was out at work. You know how it goes. Warehouse full of thugs, everything under control, then Bruce comes crashing in and fucks up my well-laid plans.”

Another eye-roll from Tim, presumably over Jason calling his plans anything other than _haphazard disasters held together by prayers to a God that hates me_ , but Jason pressed on nevertheless.

“I wasn’t thrilled about it but we were almost not _completely_ getting in each other’s way. Then someone levels an Uzi at me and the bastard decides to dive in front of me like a fuckin’ bodyguard. I get his ass out of there, I get his ass back _here_ , and you know the rest.”

He tried to say it like he didn’t care. Like repeating it at all was boring to the extreme. Like the moments after he’d realized what had happened hadn’t been made of sheer, undiluted panic, the kind you usually only got when you were shot up by Scarecrow.

Dick’s eyebrows had drawn together, a look of pained bewilderment on his face. It was Tim who spoke first, though.

“Why would he do that?” he asked. “You would’ve been _fine_.”

A month ago– hell, an _hour_ ago– it would’ve been an accusation. Tim’s way of calling Jason a liar. Now, though, all it did was echo the question that had been rattling around in Jason’s brain with the dedication of a Furby’s battery life.

Why _had_ Bruce done it? Why had he shielded Jason?

 _Jason_.

Jason Todd, all grown up. Jason Todd, broken. Jason Todd, no longer the kid Bruce had called _kind_ , now a killer and a monster in his own right. Who had tried to kill _Bruce_ , and worse, had tried to kill Dick and Tim. Who’d _succeeded_ in one case. Maybe he was finding his way back onto the rails now, but that didn’t change any of the shit he’d done– all the shit he was _still_ doing.

And maybe Jason still could’ve understood, if only the whole thing hadn’t been pointless. Batman tried to save everyone, the worst of the worst included, _Jason_ included, because that was what Bruce thought a hero did. And sure, sometimes he failed– Jason had a pretty vivid _fucking_ memory of him failing– but he still _tried_. Even when people didn’t deserve to be saved.

And also, apparently, when they didn’t _need_ it.

Because Jason _would_ have been fine. He would’ve died, but he would’ve been _fine_. Jason would have come back, he _always_ came back now, and being shot would’ve _sucked_ but he would’ve been– fine. Yet Bruce had risked his own life, his own _permanent_ death, to stop Jason’s temporary one.

“As far as I can figure,” Jason said quietly, “There’s only a couple possibilities. One, instinct took over, and that’s. . .”

“Bullshit,” Dick finished for him.

( _captain self-control_ )

Jason nodded. “Two, he’s figured out something about my resurrections that I don’t know.”

It was a thought he’d had halfway through the shopping district on the way here, as he’d swerved to avoid an oncoming semi that honked at him for driving in the wrong lane. It’d made the bottom of his stomach drop out. He could still remember the second time he’d died, the way his chest had seized up with panic and fear and he’d almost _laughed_ even as he sobbed because _fuck_ , it wasn’t fair. That he got a second chance at life and had it ripped away again so soon.

And then he’d woken up.

He’d thought, at first, that maybe it was residual resurrection energy or something. That it would fade out with time, leaving him just as mortal as anyone else when it all dried up. It wasn’t until much later that he’d realized this shit _wasn’t going away_ , that Jason was always going to come back.

It wasn’t until tonight that he’d wondered if that had a cost.

“I mean, faustian bargains or whatever, right?” Jason asked. “Maybe every time I come back some random person kicks the bucket instead. Or maybe I’m powered by the souls of the damned and my deaths destroy their essence forever or some shit.”

Depending on whose definition of _damned_ was being used, Jason might be okay with that second one. He wasn’t about to start destroying the spirits of any poor bastard who wore mixed fibers, but if he could personally be responsible for blotting Hitler’s greasy ghost from existence. . .

( _the jokes helped him pretend there wasn’t a very real possibility that every careless death he’d jumped headlong into since becoming cavalier with his own mortality could have taken someone else out with him_ )

Dick sucked a breath back between his teeth.

“I. . . I mean, if Bruce _did_ come across something like that, he didn’t tell me. Tim?”

Tim shook his head. His lips were pursed, and he was giving Jason that _look_ again. That _I’m unraveling your brain as we speak_ look. Jason took another sip of his hot chocolate so he didn’t find himself tempted to upend it over Tim’s head.

“Is that why you’ve been acting like this?” Tim asked. “You’re lashing out, trying to get us to hurt you, because you feel like you might. . . deserve it? For hurting other people?”

His tone was almost incredulous. Jason didn’t blame him, except he _totally_ did, because how fucking _dare_ he come to a conclusion that was even _slightly_ close to being right. Jason didn’t give a shit about hurting other people. He reveled in it. Swaddled himself in the pain he dragged around with him like a security blanket. If Jason had wanted to be _punished_ he could’ve turned himself into the GCPD and waited to be found mysteriously dead in his cell.

( _Not that he’d stay that way, much to the pigs’ surprise_ )

“Do you know how many people I shot in the head tonight?” Jason asked by way of an answer.

“People you think _deserved_ it,” Tim countered. “People you _meant_ to hurt.”

“ _Fuck_ , Timbers, it’s not _about_ the resurrection thing!” Jason snapped. It was mostly true. “And it’s not like we’ll even know what the deal is with that until Sleeping Beauty wakes up.”

“So that’s why you haven’t run off yet,” Dick said. “You need Bruce to tell you what he knows.”

“And here I thought it was because he missed my cooking,” Alfred said mildly.

Jason laughed, because, _fuck_ , how could he not? After a night like tonight, after _everything_ that had ever happened to him, how could he not sit here and laugh at Alfred’s stupid fucking joke?

“I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, and he drained his mug to the dregs. Maybe Alfred really _had_ put some kind of knockout drug in there.

( _He hadn’t. Jason knew he hadn’t_ )

( _Fuck him for not trying to take Jason out while he had the chance_ )

“We’ve got guest rooms,” Dick offered. Like it was up to him if Jason could stay. Like Jason would be so stupid as to let his guard down enough to sleep in front of him.

( _Like he had with Tim the other night_ )

“I’m all set, thanks,” he said. “Don’t wanna make any extra work for Alfred.”

“It really wouldn’t be any trouble, master Jason.”

Jason shook his head. “I’m not staying. I’m only here until Bruce wakes up, then I’m gone.”

There was a long moment of silence. Tim glanced at Dick, like he was looking for an indication of how to proceed, the green-light from the vigilante with the most authority present. Dick just looked at Jason. Tonight was the first time in a while that Jason had seen him maskless, and his eyes were both a surprise and a distant, insistent memory.

“Jay,” he said. “I’m sorry I assumed the worst when I saw you with Bruce.”

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ apologize,” Jason said. He’d wanted to sound angrier, more forceful, but instead he just sounded–

( _tired_ )

“I’m well aware of the shit I’ve pulled. Any other night and you would’ve been right on the money.”

“You’ve been doing so much _better_ lately though,” Dick said, “Even if– I mean, even if you–”

“ _Stop_ ,” Jason snarled. “ _Stop it_. I’m not doin’ _better_. Don’t you _put_ that shit on me. You wanna raise your expectations, _fine_ , but you’re betting on a horse that ain’t in the fuckin’ race. I’m not coming back into the fold, _Dick_. I don’t want your _pity_. I’m not the kid Bruce dragged in off the streets anymore and I’m _not_ a part of your _family_. I thought you _understood_ that!”

“Master Jason–” Alfred began, a faint kind of alarm in his tone, and just like that Jason was on his feet, nails digging into his palms and teeth bared in a snarl. Flat, human teeth that still somehow got a flinch out of Tim.

Jason swallowed bile.

“Don’t even start with me, Alfred! I’m so fucking tired of this shit! It’s either _Jason’s a monster_ or _Jason’s just a poor lost kid_ and I’m fucking sick of it! I made my choices, I _dug_ my grave, so why won’t you all just _leave me in the fucking dirt?!_ ”

“Because,” said a low voice, and Jason suddenly realized that Alfred wasn’t looking at him. He was looking over at the hallway, and when Jason jerked his head around, there he was.

Bruce.

He looked right at Jason as he spoke.

“We already did that once. We’re not going to make the same mistake twice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth on including the flashback at the beginning of the chapter, and I'm still not sure about it, but ultimately there were parts I liked enough that I decided it could stay. I'm not super confident about the characterization in this chapter– usually I can get my dialogue to flow in one continuous stream, but here I had to backtrack and rewrite sections over and over. I hope the end result comes together okay, and that it's not too heavy-handed. I'll probably feel better once I sleep on it but I wanted to get this up tonight. Guess I can always regret it later!!


	3. Live Wire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this all in one feverish go. I have not edited. I have not slept. I have class in three hours. Mistakes have been made.

Jason wasn’t a patient person.

He never had been. It was part of what had gotten him killed. No one who had ever met him would accuse him of having a level head, and his ‘charge the fuck in right the fuck now’ strategy being his go-to plan just went to show that. So he wouldn’t hold it against anyone who thought they could outlast him in a battle of restraint.

They’d still lose, though, because while Jason might be impatient as hell, he was also _stubborn_. Another part of what had gotten him killed, but also something that’d saved his life a few times before that. Currently, it was helping him go toe-to-toe with the Batman.

In a round of the silent treatment.

Well, that probably wasn’t the right phrase. Bruce had come in, cleared the birds and the fae from the room amid protests and one particularly mutinous look from Tim, and sat down across from Jason. The silence had stretched taut between them like a guitar string, ready to snap if the pressure was ratcheted up even the slightest bit. Bruce hadn’t spoken yet, and Jason refused to be the one to cave and break the silence.

He just looked at him, examining Bruce’s features. He was pale, paler than usual, but he’d stood without support and there were no bandages peeking out from under his t-shirt. Dick had done a good job of patching him up. The fresh blood had probably helped too. Still, he looked tired, bone-weary and weak in a way Jason had rarely seen, and hadn’t seen at all since he’d come back. If he had, especially in those first few months. . . Bruce probably wouldn’t be sitting across from him right now.

( _He couldn’t believe Dick had apologized more than once for daring to think Jason might have shot him_ )

( _He could. Dick was a fucking idiot_ )

“You stayed.”

Bruce, apparently unable to hold out any longer, finally spoke. Jason’s eyes darted to his mouth as he talked, noting that, while Bruce’s fangs weren’t prominent, they were still protruding slightly. Guy still needed some more blood.

“Wow. Didn’t realize you’d changed aliases, Captain Obvious.”

Jason’s voice was rough around the edges. He’d been yelling a lot tonight– yelling to be heard over gunfire, mostly, with a little bit of _blowing up on the b-team_ sprinkled in. The hot chocolate had helped a bit. Alfred would _not_ be making him any more, not after what he’d said.

( _He_ wasn’t _a part of their family. Not anymore. They all knew it, so why the fuck did they have the nerve to look at him like he’d just spit in their faces?_ )

Bruce pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“You _stayed_ ,” he repeated, more forcefully, “And I didn’t expect you to.”

There was a whole novel’s worth of subtext under that sentence. Jason didn’t want to read it. Of course he’d stayed, he needed an explanation from Bruce. Of course Bruce hadn’t expected it, because if someone had posed Jason this exact hypothetical scenario earlier tonight, he’d have laughed in their face and told them no information was worth voluntarily subjecting himself to the Bats.

Jason looked away.

“Yeah, well. We need to talk.”

“We’ve needed to talk for quite some time,” Bruce said. “I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

They then proceeded to sit there and. . . not talk. The silence settled between them again.

They were really fucking bad at this.

( _Quite some time? How long had Bruce been sitting on this information? Why had he been keeping it from Jason?_ )

( _And since when was_ any _interaction between them worthy of the title_ better circumstances?)

“I think Tim might be teetering on the edge of going full-Jason and trying to murder you in your sleep,” Jason said after a moment. “At the very least I think you’re gonna need a new punching bag at the end of the night.”

Bruce sighed. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing with him,” he said, voice soft.

It threw Jason for a fucking loop.

“What,” he said, because seriously, _what?_ Was Bruce _seriously_ confiding in Jason about his parenting woes? _Jason?_

Apparently so, because Bruce kept going.

“He knows why I benched him. He knows why I haven’t okayed him coming back out with me. He can’t present me with any logical argument for why he should be out on the streets again and yet he’s clearly frustrated with my verdict. It’s not a lack of understanding, and I don’t believe it’s entitlement. I’m worried he’s pushing himself too hard and I don’t know how to curb that in any way _other_ than keeping him sidelined.”

Jesus.

Okay.

Apparently they were doing this.

A large, loud part of Jason rankled at the thought. Fuck this bullshit, he didn’t care about Bruce’s _struggle_ to _parent_ the replacement. He cared about why Bruce had thrown himself between Jason and a fucking machine gun. Every second they spent _not_ talking about it needled at the place where Jason’s patience was supposed to be.

But he was still stubborn. He wasn’t going to crack, wasn’t going to demand answers and give away how desperate he was, as if staying this long didn’t already more than prove it. He wasn’t going to show how much it twisted the knife in his gut to hear Bruce agonize over doing right by Tim.

( _Tim had come to_ him _for help the other night_ )

“The kid’s frustrated,” Jason said. He managed to make it sound almost level, like he _wasn’t_ gritting the words out. “I know you’re shit at it, but you gotta talk it out. And I don’t mean _logical arguments_ , I mean _real_ talking.”

“Timothy likes logical arguments.”

“He likes _understanding_ shit,” Jason countered, “And right now I don’t think he understands why you’re worried about him. You tell him it’s about him pushing too hard or did you just cut him off right after that _Gazette_ article?”

A muscle in Bruce’s cheek twitched. That was all Jason needed. He leaned back in his chair with a huff of laughter, no mirth at all in the sound.

“Of _course_. Look, either start paying Dick to translate for you twenty-four seven or start communicating better with your birds.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said. Jason blinked. Hadn’t heard _that_ in a while. “I’ve never been very. . . good with words.”

“Not a secret, Bats.”

“I’ve been trying to be better. With him.”

 _Better than I was with you_ , went unsaid, and something nasty squirmed in Jason’s gut. Jealousy, maybe. Anger, definitely, most of what Jason _was_ these days was anger. Regret for the family he didn’t have anymore. A small part of him even wanted to argue, because while Bruce might not be _great_ at talking he’d still been good enough to destroy Jason. Because Jason had _loved_ him, loved Bruce so bad it had _hurt_ , even back then. Loved him despite knowing what a bad idea it was, from _experience_ even, loved him even with the memory of his mom’s frail corpse, his dad’s retreating back and vicious backhand. He’d let him in, let _all_ of them in, because he was too stupid to learn his lesson and stay away from things that burned.

He was smarter now.

( _No he wasn’t_ )

( _It still hurt, how much he loved Bruce_ )

( _And hated him_ )

“Thank you,” Bruce said, snapping Jason’s focus back to their conversation.

 _For what?_ he thought, then, _Oh. The blood_.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, despite them both knowing that was a lie.

Bruce shook his head. He actually had a faint smile on his lips.

“I mean it, Jason. Thank you. It’s good to know he has a place to go when he needs it.”

. . .okay, apparently it _wasn’t_ about the blood.

“What, _Drake?_ ” Jason asked, incredulous. “Are you _serious?_ ”

“I have been told I have a poor sense of humor,” Bruce mused, “but yes. I know he stayed with you the other night.”

“He _broke in_.”

“And you neither threw him out nor took advantage of his weakened state. You even helped him recover.”

Fuck, screwed over twice in one night by the smell of his blood. He should’ve made Drake brush his teeth before he left, maybe poured half a bottle of Listerine down his throat. Except at the time he hadn’t been fussed about any of the bats knowing where Tim had been, who he’d been drinking, because he’d been too caught up in the vindictive thrill of helping the baby bird break the rules.

“It was–“

“Don’t say it.”

“–appreciated,” Bruce finished diplomatically. _Kind_ , Jason heard in the back of his head.

“Fuck off,” he said, then, as a sort of _thank you_ for not saying the word out loud, “Just work this shit out with him so he doesn’t make it a habit.”

“Trust me,” Bruce said, his tone darkening slightly. “I don’t intend to see him hurt like that again.”

There was still blood on Jason’s couch.

“Is _that_ what all this was about?” Jason asked. “Some code of honor thing? You _owing_ me one for not kicking the baby bird while he was down? Because I would’ve taken cash, Bruce.”

If it was, Jason was going to scream and possibly shoot something, because it would mean he’d psyched himself out and endured the slow death his old home brought for no reason.

Bruce looked uncomfortable.

Never a good sign.

“No,” he said, “That. . . that isn’t why.”

“Then what the fuck possessed you to get yourself hole-punched?” Jason snapped. He was scrutinizing Bruce’s face, checking every muscle twitch for clues. Bruce’s eyebrows drew together and he looked at Jason as if _Jason_ was the idiot here, as if Jason had missed something obvious.

“You were in the line of fire,” he said.

“Yeah? _So?_ ” Jason asked. “The fuck was it gonna do? _Kill_ me?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. He was looking back at Jason, examining him the same way Jason was. Like he didn’t understand what he was thinking. “You’re _human_ , Jason.”

“A juiced-up human who keeps coming back from the dead,” Jason corrected, then– because he just _loved_ plunging headfirst into topics that would definitely make him regret it– “What, do my resurrections kill babies or something?”

Bruce blinked. He was still looking at Jason the same way.

“No,” he said, then, as if Jason didn’t get it, “But you still die.”

“ _So?_ ” Jason exploded. Relief mingled with frustration and anger and he found himself raising his voice. So he wasn’t laying waste to the population with his recklessness. Good to know he’d been worried over nothing.

Fuck, why was he even still _here?_ He’d just gotten his answer. No need to stick around any longer. Jason got to his feet, intent on leaving, and Bruce looked up at him with a look that tore up his insides, soft and pitying and far too familiar. Far too _familial_.

“Jason,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. “Not all of us take your deaths as lightly as you do.”

Jason gripped the edge of the table, hard enough that his knuckles went white and his nails ached from digging into the wood. He lowered his head, staring _hard_ at the floor beneath him.

“So that’s it,” he said, voice thick. “You just didn’t want to see me die.”

( _Again_ )

( _What, would the guilt be too much for you?_ )

( _Bring back bad memories?_ )

( _Force you to look at what you did to me?_ )

( _How you failed?_ )

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. Not what Jason was thinking– uncharitable and cruel and, as Tim had said, something Jason _knew_ was wrong. But it also wasn’t fair what had happened to him. What Bruce had _let_ happen to him. Except he didn’t, and Jason _knew_ that, knew it was his own fucking fault for going off on his own and being _impatient_ and _stubborn_ and believing that Bruce would always be there to save him, even when Jason had made it impossible. He’d put his own obstacles up between them, sabotaged everything himself, and maybe if they’d had time they could’ve worked it out. Maybe Jason could’ve been the big brother to Tim that Dick had been for him, maybe he could’ve grown out of Robin and handed it off willingly instead of leaving a gaping hole to fill. But he hadn’t. Because Jason destroyed everything he touched. Because he couldn’t let himself be happy if it _killed_ him.

( _Ha_ )

Something wet dripped onto the back of his hand. He was crying. For the second time that night.

He flinched when Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. Flinched when he drew him into a hug. He wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, when he’d circled around the table. Jason was stiff and unwieldy in his arms but Bruce didn’t let that stop him, just wrapped his arms around Jason’s hunched shoulders and held him.

Bruce was bad at words.

He’d always been better at actions.

Hugs. Throwing himself in the line of fire to save Jason’s life. Because apparently it didn’t matter if it wouldn’t stick.

( _I don’t intend to see him hurt like that again_ )

( _I don’t intend to see_ you _hurt like that again_ )

“I can’t,” Jason choked, “I can’t–“

Breathe? Come back? This didn’t fix anything. This didn’t make anything _better_. Jason had still done _unspeakable_ things to them all, they couldn’t just _forgive_ him. Couldn’t tell him he was doing better. Couldn’t sit on the couch with him watching Kitchen Nightmares. Couldn’t make him undrugged hot chocolate.

Couldn’t save his worthless life.

“You’re an idiot,” he sniffled. He was pleased that he still managed to sound angry even with the runny nose. He wiped it aggressively on his sleeve, and Bruce squeezed his shoulders. “You could’ve _died_.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said– _shit_ , two in one _night?_ “I should have considered what this would do to you, psychologically.”

“Fuck _me_ , imagine what _Drake_ would’ve done if you died while you two were fighting. And you think Dick would’ve ever forgiven himself? You think Alfred would ever be the same again?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Jason sniffled again. It was too pretty a word for the wet snorting noise he made as he tried to suck the snot dribbling down his face back inside. “Everyone needs to stop apologizing to me. I don’t like it.”

“Sometimes,” Bruce said, “Family means putting up with things you don’t like.”

It took every ounce of Jason’s willpower not to squirm free and bolt right then and there. Bruce seemed to notice the way he tensed, because he released Jason from his embrace. One hand lingered on Jason’s shoulder and Jason shrugged it off, despite the fact that losing that physical contact felt like losing a limb.

He dragged his sleeve over his face. Such a fucking crybaby still. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not by Bruce, and certainly not by anyone else in this hodgepodge family. He eyed the sliding glass doors just past Bruce’s shoulder, then remembered his bare feet, the fact that all his shit was still down in the cave or in the wash. His suit. His boots. His helmet. His _bike_.

Bruce saw him looking. Of course he did. He glanced over his shoulder, following his gaze, then looked back at Jason.

“I’ll call you a cab,” he said. Jason looked up at him, surprised. “I’m not going to force you to stay. Not if you don’t want to.”

There was something in his tone that made Jason suddenly, _violently_ certain that Bruce _wanted_ him to stay. _Wanted_ Jason here, under the same roof, despite everything. Despite all he’d done, was _still_ doing, was _going_ to do.

Part of Jason wanted to accept. The part of him that, _despite everything_ , still wanted to give Bruce anything he wanted.

He couldn’t. It was too much. Too much had happened tonight, from a simple arms bust to all _this_. Messy, raw emotions were probing at the surface of Jason’s thoughts, and he needed to sleep in his own bed, in his own shitty apartment, to process them. There was too much baggage here. He needed to clear his mind. He needed _space_.

“I’ll be back,” he said. He said it quietly, so quietly that if it had been anyone other than Bruce, he probably wouldn’t have heard.

( _Maybe Superman could’ve_ )

“Right,” Bruce said, and there was disappointment in his tone. Jason was very familiar by now. He swallowed something bitter.

It went down a little easier this time.

( _Sometimes family means putting up with things you don’t like_ )

“I mean it,” he said, “I’ll be back. Soon. So for the love of fuck, don’t do anything drastic to try to get me here. This was a one-time deal. I’m not gonna come running every time you get a hangnail.”

A pause, then.

“Of course you’ll come back. I assume Nightwing confiscated your guns.”

Jason snorted. “What, actually gonna give those back to me?”

He said it without meaning to, a baiting prod that just– slipped out. Even when he wasn’t trying, he still antagonized the Bats. It was like a compulsion. He’d ask why he felt the need to constantly piss off others if he didn’t know full well where that urge came from.

( _Fuck Tim for having even gotten close_ )

“I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I believe rubber bullets can still be lethal. I may have to look that up first.”

“I’m not putting condoms on my rounds, Bruce.”

Bruce actually, legitimately cracked a smile at him. Jason’s heart broke clean in two inside of him. He hadn’t seen that smile since– since before he died.

“Safety first,” Bruce said, then, as if it meant nothing at all, “I’m your father and I said so.”

Jason could barely wait for the cab. He needed to get out of there. It helped that Bruce had left him at the door, maybe out of a desire to give Jason space and maybe because he still wasn’t good to stand for long periods of time. Dawn was touching the horizon, pink _just_ edging the distant Gotham skyline. Jason could hear the soft sounds of distant cars. Alarms. Sirens. The city was alive.

Jason was alive.

For now, that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> STRAP IN KIDS, BECAUSE APPARENTLY WHEN I SAID THIS "WASN'T TOO FAR DOWN THE PIPE" I MEANT "HERE IT FUCKING COMES."
> 
> Multi-chapter fic for once! I'm still writing chapters 2 and 3, and I can't guarantee they'll be up as fast as this was, but I'm neck-deep in angst and apparently that's where I'm staying for a while. Catch you guys (hopefully) soon!


End file.
